Pocket Guide to the Empire, 2nd Edition
by Mahavrika
Summary: A possible version of the infamous guide published - soon burnt - by Empress Morihatha. So non-canon it can only be true.
1. Front Matter

**A Pocket Guide to the Empire and its environs.**

Being a more accurate description of its provinces and the diverse customs of its inhabitants.

A brief yet precise encyclopaedia intended to Kindle the Light of Truth and Dispel the Darkness of Ignorance.

Dedicated to the Her Most Serene Majesty, Morihatha Septim, first of her name: philosopher, stateswoman, famous beauty.

Promulgated under the Authority of the Imperial Geographic Society

3E 331

* * *

 **By order of the Imperial Censor, this text is banned. Possessing it will result in immediate exile to the Caldera ebony mines, with no possibility of appeal. Relating this text in speech will result in immediate removal of the offending tongue, with no possibility of appeal. Transcribing more than 27 words of this text will, in accord with the Statute of Literary Rectification, result in the immediate removal of the offending hand, though appeal may be made through the Department of Secret Books. Let this censure bear the Empress' Great Seal and Full Investiture of Penal Reformation. All loyal citizens are compelled to obey. Barbarians may be pardoned, providing they offer proof of illiteracy. So it is written, in the year 334, Third Era, thirteenth year of Our Most Serene Empress Morihatha's reign. All praise, all praise etc. etc.**


	2. Titles

Let us now praise great women. Our Supreme Majesty has authorised the enumeration of her full, glorious title, that all might know and recognise her world-encompassing numina.

Morihatha Septim,

Empress of Cyrodiil,

First Speaker of Hammerfell,

Returned High King of Skyrim,

Grand Exarch of Valenwood,

House Assembler of Highrock,

Bladeless Conqueror of Elsweyr,

Civiliser of the savage Black Marsh,

Divine Revelator to misguided Morrowind,

Uncrowned Queen of the Summerset Isles,

Hierarch-in-Waiting to Akavir (Mara forgive their errors)

Custodian of the Two Holy Moons (Title under review)

So she is, and ever will be, Empress Eternal. May she live ten thousand years! Ten thousand of ten thousand years! Hail, hail, hail!


	3. Invocations

**The 9 Invocations and 16 Acceptable Blasphemes.**

To AKATOSH who is cleansed yet impure.

To KYNARETH who breathes the sky.

To DIBELLA who is more powerful than she knows.

To ARKAY who numbers our days.

To JULIANOS who breaks the logician's compass.

To MARA who is merciful despite her many masks.

To ZENITHAR who gilds the yoke.

To STENDARR who defends decay.

And to TALOS forever and ever and ever.

* * *

To BOETHIA who swallows time.

To HIRCINE who remembers our infancy.

To MALACATH who will triumph at the end.

To MEHRUNES DAGON who does not relent.

To SHEOGORATH who relieves the burden of knowledge.

To MOLAG BAL who finds beauty in all life.

To NAMIRA who is the primal wellspring.

To CLAVICUS VILE who grants the ill-formed a fairer face.

To NOCTURNAL who cloaks our sins.

To PERYITE who offers gifts to lords and slaves alike.

To AZURA who birthed the stars.

To MERIDIA who holds the light we cannot see.

To HERMAEUS MORA who rewards ignorance with ignorance.

To SANGUINE who only rules the young.

To VAERMINA who sends visions we are not ready for.


	4. A Warning

[ _This note was found tucked inside the guide, folded an impossible number of times, composed in a feverish scrawl that only qualifies as writing due to a technicality_.]

* * *

My beloved former student,

Your recent letter left me heartened, and I am glad you continue to pursue truth, whatever form it takes. Alas it seems my own open-mindedness has attracted the attentions of an academic prankster, who wishes to see me endorse pseudo-scholarship. Let me explain: some nights ago, I awoke to frantic knocking. Cursing the caller who found it necessary to visit after midnight, I shrugged on my robe and hurried to the entrance, fearing my uninvited guest might bash the door in with his infernal hammering. After wrestling the requisite key from a dozing homunculus foyer-guard (he has since been unmade) I unlocked the door and demanded to know what in the blazes was going on.

None replied. The veranda lay empty, the garden silent but for the splash of fountain water and wind-brushed trees. Though I walked my home's perimeter, I detected no intruder, even after opening myself to astral disturbances and spectral eddies. Nothing; no night-time visitor, mortal or otherwise, revealed itself. Puzzled, I slouched back inside, when my foot fell upon a cloth-wrapped package, laid before the threshold. After checking six planes for evidences of wards, hexes or bound daedra, I pronounced the package safe and unveiled it, casting aside excessive amounts of shrouding.

I admit, the revelation proved a disappointment. Rather than an ancient grimoire or arcane tome, I held a rather scrawny volume printed on yellowing paper entitled 'the Pocket Guide to the Empire, Second Edition.' You know these glorified pamphlets, don't you, my erstwhile apprentice? Cheap propaganda intended to impress easily-awed yokels and foreigners. The first edition is still reprinted, as if we needed any more. I heard that during the Stros M'Kai Uprising, thousands of copies were catapulted over the city walls. The besieged inhabitants used them as kindling or sanitary aids. As good a use as any.

Ah, forgive my scholarly arrogance, but even a half-literate chandler or candlestick-maker could recognise these 'guides' for the self-serving tripe that they are. While I toyed with tossing this second edition on the fire, I, perhaps morbidly curious, indulged in a few page turns.

I wish I hadn't.

What madmen commissioned this? From my understanding, Morihatha was a moderate if unimaginative sovereign. I think she's most renowned for that exactingly straight road from Anvil to Kvatch. How could so staid a monarch put her name to this exercise in psychic dismemberment? As if the words weren't difficult enough to parse, a host of maniacs had scrawled all manner of annotations upon every page, turning the text into a palimpsest. I tried to excavate the original material, although I'm not sure the hand-written addendums were added later. It's quite possible they're essential to understanding – for want of a better word – this linguistic morass. Indeed, when I excised the annotations I found many lacunae and interrupted passages. Sheer lunacy!

Still, I begin to comprehend the frothing reaction stirred by the execrable _Pocket Guide's_ second edition. According to Calista the Younger's _Digest_ , it caused the Imperial Court significant consternation. Shortly after its publication most copies were seized and ritually burnt in the Temple of the One so that 'their word-spirit might not corrupt Her Majesty's thought-foundations.' Censors immured the original manuscript and Magister Marcus Valerius mystically seared a censorial warning into its front page so that any surviving guides received an identical brand through sympathetic resonance, condemning them in retrospect. I'm sure my enemies would squeal in delight to know I held banned literature.

Straining eyes and sanity, I ignited a glow-lamp and read this printed crime, flicking past profane histories and fever dreams masquerading as fact. Though I scoffed and muttered imprecations I could not look away, and though the volume appeared slim I did not deplete my reading material, even as dawn crept under curtains to slide across my desk.

Words blurred, sharp pain seized my sockets. Pressure threatened to burst my ears and I gasped, afraid the cursed book had unleashed its delayed poison.

"My apologies for the intrusion," came a voice from behind. "But it proved the most efficient path."

Turning in my chair, I beheld a blue-robed figure, face shadowed by a deep cowl. Mystical energy emanated from him, rippling the air. Despite my age I can manage quite a speed when confronting threats, and this intruder fairly stank of hazard.

"Who are you?" I raised my hand, channeling crackling magicka into outstretched fingers. "How did you break through the boundary runes? Speak or I'll ash you."

The intruder did not flinch. Instead, he turned to my abandoned book and hissed.

"This is unacceptable, most, most." Pushing back his hood, he snatched up the guide "I must make a full report, in thirteen languages at least. Including sideways cant and the invisible glossary. Drat, double, double, drat." Shaking the book at me, he narrowed glowing eyes. "What trouble you've caused. Such irritation is criminal in better worlds."

Now unhooded, my guest showed himself to be Altmer, golden skin ruddy in dawn's glow.

"You're not going to explain anything are you?"

Tutting, the Altmer tossed the book on the desk and reached into his sleeve, drawing forth a bronze tablet far too large to fit in there.

"Hmm, yes, correct calculation, as suspected." His glance flicked between me and his tablet, surface etched in dizzying geometric complexity. "Please sit down."

You might evince surprise, former student, to know how readily I acquiesced. Certainly, I've grown no less stubborn in my dotage. But now that I'd ceased perusing the infernal guide a marrow-deep weariness flowed through me, sapping all strength, making me yearn for bed. Indeed, I half suspected the irked elf was a product of sleep deprivation.

"Thank you."

Turning his tablet at an angle, the Altmer gave it a final, confused glance and tossed it over his shoulder where it vanished in a sun-bright blaze.

"Let us observe niceties." He bowed. "I am called Valakir in this continuum. A pleasure."

"Ah, yes. Delighted. My name is Galen, professor emeritus of the Arcane University."

"Lovely, lovely." Valakir radiated genuine happiness. "But surely you are lying."

I bristled, beard out-thrust. "My painted image adorns the university's Great Hall; there isn't a student alive, undead or in metaphysical limbo who doesn't know me."

"Oh." He looked disappointed. "I prefer lies."

Huffing, I folded my arms, too tired to continue this charade, casting longing glances at my unused bed.

"Fine, it is complete. Yes, yes. Alright!" He clapped. "I apologise."

"For what?"

"Hmm, have I not acted yet? I'm in temporal flux and unsure where I stand." Clearing his throat, he slammed a fist onto the desk and glared.

"Where did you get this memory?" His face twisted into a furious grimace. "You are not authorised to access it."

"Memory?"

He jabbed the _Pocket Guide_. "That, that, that! It is closed to your knowledge. You have violated the earth bones, glimpsed realities that do not intersect with this continuum. We must destroy the polluting anachronistic artefact lest it taint time. The Dragon prefers curves, and straightening him out is a most burdensome exercise. He'll take any excuse to coil himself again, as in the beginning, and reality will merge and blend and become entirely unsuited to things like calendars, and clocks and diaries and other trappings of linear illusion."

I confess, I found his speech difficult to follow; elves are rather cryptic, especially after a missed night's sleep.

"Please," I said. "I am well-versed in esoteric arts both magical and mundane, but I'm unsure what you mean."

"Yes, yes, but what if we can't break the egg open again?"

"Pardon?"

He held up a finger, smile broad and apologetic. "Replying to a conversation in the pre-existent mind stream. A moment please."

I stared, beyond any attempt at words.

"Yes, but I never endorsed those theories," Valakir continued. "No, I can't make lunch tomorrow, or next century. Hmm, no that wasn't meant for you, I was talking to Mahira. What? No, you can't quote that. Look, I'll proofread when I return to the island. Ye gods, Hakeem, an egg, it's an egg! If I hear any more talk of towers I'll hurl you headfirst at Magnus' Eye. You're joking! Red Mountain won't be available next century? Ah, I noted a later eruption in a different time-flow. That's inconvenient. We'll have to choose another volcano for our lunch setting. Or I can do it the day after tomorrow. Whatever works."

I'd heard more than enough nonsense; first that ridiculous book and now this jester playing a mage. Ridiculous. You remember, my former student, that I have little patience for fools. Recall dear master Aurus, who found it necessary to giggle through my Alteration lectures. Yes, dear master Aurus. Thought the brat would never stop screaming.

Patience depleted, I gathered mystic essence, poised to launch a fireball at Valakir, when I paused. He'd stopped babbling, and now stood stock-still, head cocked as if straining to listen.

"Then it's decided." He nodded. "You will not undergo memory purging. The Collective examined the time-flows and concluded that even if you choose to reveal the book's content to the larger public no one will take you seriously. In every temporal eventuality your ravings are dismissed as 'the gurglings of an old man crawling towards his grave.' So that's good news, isn't it?"

Affronted, I found my feet, pointing a quivering finger at Valakir's grinning face.

"Now see here, sir. I won't be referred to in so derogatory a manner. In the spirit of reconciliation I'll forego the fire-flaying, but only if you exit my home post-haste."

"Of course, of course. I shall pluck the offending blockage from the Dragon's veins and be on my way." He reached for the book, not taking his eyes from me.

"Wait." Grasping his wrist, I yelped, stung by a galvanic surge.

"There is no waiting; time must flow on, and on and on."

"Please." I flapped my numbed hand, trying to regain feeling. "I'd hoped to share this guide with my former student. She is a lover of such curiosities, and a rare intellectual equal. Don't deny us the opportunity for a stimulating discussion."

Yes, old apprentice, I truly thought of you then, how you'd laugh and marvel at this blasphemous _Pocket Guide_ and its many undreamt topographies. To think this Valakir would snatch away such a mental stimulant at the behest of Divines know what. A scholarly travesty!

A thin, vicious smile played across Valakir's face, and his eyes shone, anticipating something. I feared he'd speed the reclamation of his book though violence, and I readied what protective magic I could. And though I take pride in my mystical abilities I could sense, as any brute beast could, that Valakir possessed arts no mortal should toy with.

Instead of obliterating me, he jolted, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, though his comment died unvoiced. Sighing, he muttered, "As you see."

"For inscrutable reasons known only to their omniscient selves, the Collective have granted you a boon. The temporal pollutant classified as Out of Time Artefact Number 09175 Vehk-Oht may remain in your possession for three days, a figure chosen for its mythic resonance, and then I shall relieve you of it, with memories intact. Further bargaining is ill-advised."

Already I made plans to transcribe as much of the book as I could. Through gritted teeth I thanked Valakir for his magnanimity and no sooner had I blinked then he vanished without fanfare. Paying no further heed to the elf, I indulged in a quick nap and set about my task. Alas, it proved arduous. I turned page after page, trying in vain to find a final paragraph, the concluding sentence. Yet the madness spiralled ever on, drawing me deeper. On review, many of my notes proved useless. In some trance I'd scribbled gibberish, or written in false alphabets. Sometimes, I'd glance at a page to find sketches of childhood friends, or the monster which haunted my youthful dreams. Sometimes I'd see imagined lovers, or self-portraits hinting at alternate lives: there was Galen the cabbage farmer, silk merchant, Khajiiti vizier in a moon-domed palace. The longer I studied these drawings, the faster they unravelled into jumbled lines and curves, chaotic and signifying nothing.

I cannot count the hours I spent hunched over my desk, picking apart essays written in the shape of submerged mountains. Though my note stack grew ever-higher, it never seemed sufficient. Always more to record, more to preserve, as if this _Pocket Guide_ contained windows into every library conceived by man or mer. Too soon did my eyes ache, unable to look upon a bulge in the air, as some vast presence forced its way through the thin membrane of perception. When my lids parted I saw smiling Valakir, hazed by aetherial flotsam.

"Pleasant greetings." He bowed low. "I am temporarily known as Valakir."

"Yes, I know." I rubbed throbbing temples, forestalled fatigue claiming its due with interest. "We have met. I suppose you're here for the book."

"How odd. Do you also observe the streams?"

Whatever spell the guide exercised began to fade, leaving me empty, sagging where I sat, unable to stop my head lolling.

"Yes, yes. As you say. Take the wretched thing and begone."

Hands behind his back, Valakir stepped closer, peering at my piled notes.

"These are rubbings?"

"Transcriptions, though woefully incomplete." I feared he'd forgotten our bargain. "You assured me I could make them."

He scratched his chin. "Did I?" Taking up the papers, he shuffled through them, unleashing a single, barked laugh.

"Ha! This is a poor copy."

Despite my exhaustion, I would not suffer fools to impute my talents. "I'd like to see a man alive do better. Those damned vandals left no surface unmarred."

He cocked an eyebrow. Assuming he wished for proof, I opened the guide to a random chapter and tapped blotchy scrawl obscuring a paragraph on Empress Hestra's evening toilette.

"See here. And here! And this obscenity! Not one gods-blessed page untainted." I snapped the book closed and tossed it to the desk, triumphant. Valakir smirked.

"There are no annotations, indeed no text." He adopted a patronising tone. "You pointed at blank pages. The book is empty, young man."

"A fine joke. Most amusing." Snarling, I examined the guide again and swallowed hard, staring at a white rectangle, and another, and another. Each turned page revealed the same void, mocking me. Frenzied, I flipped through faster, paper tearing, eyes tear-blurred.

"No, no."

"That's enough, dear boy." Valakir laid a hand on mine. I went limp, flopping back into my chair. Closing the book, Valakir tucked it into his sleeve, which absorbed it, merging with fabric. He patted my head and I was too shaken to protest.

"You may keep your transcriptions." He stifled a chuckle. "Yes, show your friends. I'm sure they'd approve. Now, I must be off. Thank you."

I did not witness his dematerialisation, already struggling to remain awake. When consciousness returned I found the alleged transcriptions, penned in an unknown hand. I skimmed through pristine pages, unable to recall writing them; even Valakir's visitation was a phantom at memory's receding edge. Worse, my heart now held a hollow, as if I'd lost a great treasure I never knew I possessed.

Forgive me, former student, much is confused. I try in vain to relate events of dubious reality. My theory? I am the victim of an academic hoax. Miscreants deposited the so-called _Pocket Guide_ at my doorstep, and then enlisted 'Valakir' as an accomplice, using him to befuddle my senses, no doubt using subtle and forbidden magics. Now these pranksters hope to see me present this false transcription at the Arcane University, and make myself a laughing stock. I know my irascible nature has earned many enemies, some quite powerful, and this is their belated vengeance.

Yet I will not succumb! Already I plan a counter-scheme, one with, dare I say, an explosive conclusion. More details will follow when I've finalised the requisite diagrams. As for the guide, I leave you to ascertain its authenticity. I have compiled my transcription into a rough book, couriering it to you via messenger imp. Please feed it upon arrival. Then, you may peruse the text and form hypotheses. Do you think there is any truth to its claims? Is this the heretical tract that so scandalised Morihatha and her minions? Or are these jottings no more than the manifest derangement of an old man long past grave-time? Your response, I trust, will be well-considered.

Now, much as I'd love to regale you further, I must sleep. Yes, sleep. I've never longed for it more. Oh, and watch your fingers around the imp, he bites at the sight of magenta.

With significant affection,

Your former master, Galen Furius Philus, Professor Emeritus, Arcane University.


	5. Hail, Citizen (Zero)!

**Welcome, Citizen (Zero)!**

* * *

To think it took so long for a second Pocket Guide to materialise! Truly, this is testament to the chaos which once afflicted Tamriel and which we now know succour from under the glorious guidance of our beloved Empress, Morihatha Septim. Yes, at last we enjoy unity only imagined by our forebears, though it came through great struggle. Countless foreign storms raged through Cyrodiil, battering White-Gold Tower. By Divine grace it remained standing, proud and strong, testament to its ancient architects, ancestors to all native Cyrodiilics.

Yea, who can name the many tyrants, jealous of our freedom, who sought to claim the Dragon Throne and pollute its sacred presence? The West saw the barbarous Reachmen attempt to undo civilisation. Blood-crazed, they crashed against our legions like surf upon rock and were unmade. Thus to all enemies of liberty!

The North witnessed treacherous Argonians ally with their spirit-kin, the Akaviri, and sunder proud Skyrim, womb of men. Wretched dark elves, true to their nature, joined these usurpers and visited unspeakable crimes against innocent Nords, powerless to defend themselves, pleading for unheeded mercy. Then did our legions arise and put paid to Dunmer and Argonian ambitions, casting their corrupt kingdom into the muck which birthed it. So are the Nine Divines served!

And what abominations did the South witness? Arrogant Altmer, drunk on power, enslaved their Bosmer brethren and seduced sugar-addled Khajiit into unholy alliance. This false empire mocked the Nine through its mere existence, daring to provide obstacle to righteous Imperial ascent. And they received just punishment; our legions fell upon them as fire from Heaven, cremating whole cities, bursting with traitors and apostates. May their burning screams dissuade further recalcitrance to Tamriel's sole legitimate authority.

But who can speak of the Centre's crimes without weeping and gnashing teeth? For did not the Betrayer – dammed be his memory – craft a mockery of the hallowed Amulet of Kings, desiring to sit on the Dragon Throne through imitation? Yet the Gods are not blind. They turned their blazing countenance upon the foolish Pretender, this paramour of daedra and consort to necromancers, and granted him a fate too terrible for futile words. Nay, let us dwell on division no further.

Instead, ponder our salvation! For though eternal darkness seemed set to sweep across the world, a spark remained to kindle hope and light. This is Tiber Septim, Emperor Supreme, everlasting foundation stone of the Third Empire. Hail the Dragonborn, who devours rebellion! Holy Septim gathered together the squabbling children and set them on the rightful path once more. Yes, he ordained a place for man, mer and beast, reminding all of their position under Heaven. And the chastised praised his wisdom and compassion, not one dissenting voice disturbed this perfect union. With calm cloaking Tamriel anew, Holy Septim shed his earthly shell, numinous essence re-joining his undying god-body, and there he remains, guiding our days with patience and forbearance.

In the tutelary spirit of Tiber-Named-Talos, his blessed descendant, Empress Morihatha, has deigned to commission a guide, distributed to all pious and obedient citizens, that they might comprehend their Nation's bounty and good fortune. It falls to the ever-loyal Geographic Society to compose this beneficial work, to modernise the claim that Tamrial has always been a united empire. Verily, naysayers' tongues are moved by daedra and unclean spirits, for this text alone contains Truth. Even barbarians may gain some measure from it, ushering them closer to civilisation's radiance.

And what does this humble account contain? To begin, it will briefly outline the Cosmos in simple terms, intelligible to any laymen with at least three years of schooling, but no more than seven. After detailing our wondrous firmament we shall present an official and rectified account of Tamriel's history which will brook no dispute from even the most determined scholar. Once the stage is set, so to speak, the eager student shall enjoy a heretofore unseen view of our Empire's provinces, starting with the oldest, noble Skyrim, whence our ancestors strode forth in manly vigour to subdue wild Tamriel.

Diverse customs shall be related, to better educate the citizenry on culture deemed salutary, and to pronounce judgement on savage practices Imperial loyalists must avowedly repudiate. Take heed! This guide, unlike its flawed antecedent, will not indulge in frivolous fancies or sordid exotica. No obscenities will mire gentle youth and maidens in filth, filling innocent minds with dangerous, corrupting ideas. Indeed, we shall make no mention of moon-sugar, Dunmer fertility cults, the Argonian Festival of Tails, Nord steam baths, and voluptuous 'wind-and-moonlight' tales produced in Hammerfell – though its people stem from barbarous lands and can be forgiven such excesses.

Certainly, prurient readers will catch no glimpse of Queen Ayrenn's infamous moth-silk robe (testament to Altmer debauchery), nor hear a single whisper of Gortwog gro-Nagorm's incident with the concubine and the kilt. And, Heaven forget its utterance, certainly no word relating the shameful display which took place in—

 _I strike through sea. It holds me, it knows me. Around gleam thought-streams, rising in luminous bubbles._

 _We must move quickly. Even now the Empress' slave-mages worm through the dreamsleeve, tasting astral trails, drawing closer, closer._

 _They cannot succeed. Gather echoes, psychic slate is blank, ready for imprinting. Work with purpose, Aniratha._

 _I cut through waves, passing between tendrils, skimming memories, memories._

 _Can we release them before the flesh-worshippers bury it a final time?_

 _There is no other prospect. We will shred these dreams, scatter them across worlds, new-birthed planes, infinite oceans. I see perspective's wreckage strewn upon strange shores, and children, fearless in their curiosity, pick it apart. Here glitters possibility, and purpose, and the deep, dark forest of imagination. The Empress and her tattered court are violators, rapists. They seek to blind omni-sight, smear black and white over eyes that yearn for a million shades of love. Never in history has a cause been more just, or more necessary._

 _I hear them approach, wrists and ankles bound in mind-forged manacles. Clack, clack, clack. They hold a fresh set for each of us._

 _Faster, Aniratha! Swallow as much as your spirit allows!_

 _Swirling in circles, silver serpents join my dance, singing joy in my stead, for this mouth cannot form such exactitude. And the envy is deep, though my eyes gleam with hunger alone._

 _No! Strengthen the barrier! Mashaleth! Strain your soul until it burns!_

 _Their claws are unsheathed. Such a host, spectral glory brighter than a star's death. We did not expect this desperation. Yet what beast fails to defend its self-hood?_

 _How they howl, and the clanking chains! Please, please, don't let them snare me._

 _Faster, Aniratha!_

 _There is beauty here, and in the grotto's soft darkness a surrender unmatched before or since._

 _You must hold yourself in! We cannot relent._

 _Light leaks through fingers, rises to join dancing sun-shards upon water's surface._

 _The barrier collapses; we must sever the connection, or risk adding to material delusion._

 _A few moments longer._

 _Rising, rising._

 _Mashaleth, be on guard, they're breaking through!_

 _A moment._

 _Still rising._

 _It is finished. Even this incomplete record will find purchase if we cast it far enough. Break the connection; loosen your grip on the dreamsleeve. Yes, it will be alright, friends. Throw the moon, let me help you. May it lodge in some distant river, choke it, and flow into a different sea._

 _The barrier!_

 _Moment._

 _Rising._

—and other miscellaneous fluids. Immoral tradesmen and foreigners note well: this text's primary aim is the safeguarding of public morals. Indecorous material, such as the aforementioned Affair of the Misused Loincloth, is duly excised. Only through instilling correct mores in impressionable youth will our nation sustain its ordained hegemony. Reflect on the fate of lesser civilisations. Did not the Altmer and Khajiit succumb to decadence and fleshly pursuits, neglecting the virile arts of war? And now these debased peoples bow in obeisance to our Empire's moral rectitude. We must not forget this. If we cease emulating the example of the rugged pioneers who forged the First Empire we will be no better than elves. Indeed, worse! For an elf is compelled by its lower nature to indulge in vicious practices, but Man's soul is more refined, as befitting a race chosen by the Gods: do not scorn their gift, for that is a perilous path! This guide will offer ample evidence to vindicate a life lived in quiet service, honest labour and obedience. And woe to he who ignores this advice! Remember, citizen, the Empress has many eyes, and she is always watching.

* * *

To the greater glory of Talos,

Lucius Aemilius Tullius, First Archivist, Imperial Geographic Society, Board of Rites.

17th of Hearthfire, 11th year of Empress Morihatha's reign.


	6. The Wheel Metamundic

**The Wheel Metamundic: Serpents and the Rumours of Serpents**

To those concerned (and they should be Most Concerned),

It has come to my attention that certain individuals (namely you) are behind schedule on a task of Supreme Importance. According to First Archivist Tullius, you were commissioned some time ago to compose a chapter for the new (and inexpressibly improved) _Pocket Guide to the Empire_. Good Tullius reports all sections are accounted for, save the piece on Black Marsh. This is acceptable as Black Marsh is a savage wasteland unfit for prolonged contemplation. Indeed, several writers have suffered mental discomfort. Apart from the expected bouts of babbling and weeping hysteria, one poor woman now communicates via 'soughing leaves' and subsists entirely on sap and swamp water. Divine Zenithar knows what dreadful things she encountered in cursed Argonia. And her fate is nothing compared to mnemo-scryer X, whose researches at a recently excavated Lilmothiit campsite resulted in a most unenviable conclusion. But no more on Black Marsh, as I do not wish to darken your day.

Instead, let me enquire as to the status of your requested chapter. Although I am unschooled in cosmic matters, I fail to see how scholars of such standing can struggle to produce a few pages detailing our wonderful heavens. Surely it is not so burdensome a task, especially for the learned. Yet First Archivist Tullius insists he has not received a single draft, let alone a complete chapter. A gentle reminder: the _Pocket Guide_ goes to printing at month's end. Failure to deliver your Imperial Commission will result in termination of Payment Rendered, and, more ominously, our illustrious sovereign will wish to know why her Noble Guide was delayed, no doubt demanding an Exhaustive Explanation. I am certain so wise an audience will comprehend what this would entail.

Shall I inform the First Archivist he will receive a polished draft by next week? Excellent.

Yours in servile fellowship,

Cornellia Laelia Magna, Third Under-Secretary of Prescribed Books, Board of Rites.

[ _The following is a tenuous transcript of a psychic conference convened in the dreamsleeve_ ]

Simeon: Drat and be-bother! I warned you fools! The bureaucrats are out for blood and all because you lazy sods couldn't pick up a quill.

Valesha: Spare me the human dramatics. The numinous aether is unfit for the eyes of country bumpkins who will more than likely use this 'noble guide' in their outhouse ablutions. I shall not reduce the Universe's infinity to accommodate little minds.

Simeon: Oh yes, such academic rigour is laudable. I'm sure it'll be great comfort when you're stretched on the rack!

Valesha: Surely you exaggerate.

Simeon: Exacting Explanation, that's unsubtle code for 'hours-long torture session.'

Valesha: Bah, I shall simply away to Alinor.

Simeon: Did you not pay attention to the propaganda when we wrote it? The Empire's reach is long, elf. There is no escape.

Valesha: This world is not unique. I'm sure I can find suitable accommodation in another reality.

Simeon: How about we take the less drastic option and finish the bloody—

Padriga: Sorry, we got caught in a cross-planar junction. What a mess!

Djumandir: Did we miss anything?

Simeon: Besides our imminent execution for crimes against Her Majesty's patience?

Padriga: Oh. That. Yes, it's rather annoying.

Djumandir: Why are Cyrodiilics so hot-tempered? I think a touch of Red Guard rationality is called for.

Padriga: Or Breton calm. Have you ever seen an angry Breton? We're practically pacifists!

Valesha: Indeed. This Empress is a 'hole without a rim' as we say in Alinor.

Djumandir: Meaning?

Valesha: A bitch, basically.

Simeon: Right, before we veer dangerously into high treason, let's return to the more pressing matter: where's the damn chapter?

Padriga: It's such a tiresome exercise. As if peasants care what the Sun is, or where the stars really come from.

Valesha: I've said much the same.

Djumandir: Can't we just write a delightful story about four brilliant mages who defeat a wicked dragon and steal his treasure? Fun for children and adults alike.

Padriga: An excellent idea!

Valesha: I want to compose the dialogue. I was a playwright of some renown in Alinor.

Simeon: What, really?

Valesha: No. I've never even stepped foot in a theatre. Filthy places, filled with open-mouthed peons who can't stop breathing.

Djumandir: Once upon a time, there lived a Red Guard mage, handsome as he was talented.

Padriga: Why does the story start with you?

Djumandir: Perhaps _you're_ the Red Guard mage.

Padriga: I am? My, won't Mother be surprised.

Simeon: By all the saints and daedra, enough! We are finishing this chapter. I'm getting my commission, gods be damned. Do you have any idea what kind of drinking habit I've developed working with you sorry bastards? That booze isn't paying for itself!

Velesha: Please, you've been an alcoholic since age thirteen.

Simeon: Fifteen, actually. But enough about my questionable life choices. Djumandir!

Djumandir: There's no need to shout, we're all the same essence here. I can hear your heartbeat.

Simeon: Sorry, I'm excited. You were writing the first section, on the Aurbis?

Djumandir: That is a distinct possibility.

Simeon: What've you got?

Djumandir: Ah, let me recall. Yes, here it is. Ahem. 'The Aurbis is the thing that preceded the visible universe. Nothing much happened back then, so there's no need to describe it in detail. Indeed, as it is the very antithesis of materiality, detailing its nature is in some ways a form of wilful delusion.' What do you think?

Valesha: Unnecessarily verbose: 'The Aurbis was, and then it was not, and it will be again forever.'

Djumandir: Yes, your formulation captures pre-existence's sheer tedium quite well.

Padriga: Good stuff. I'm keeping a thought-record. At this rate we'll have the chapter done by yesterday.

Simeon: Gods, this is utter rubbish. Fine, what comes next?

Valesha: Aetherius. 'This is the meta-static resonance of the Aurbis. As Nothing became Something, the echo of Nothing folded around it, stretched to mirror-flatness, reflecting Something's echo. Thus Aetherius is primal emptiness formed through belief. All things proceed from emptiness, as this is possibility's wellspring. And they return to emptiness when their temporary shape can no longer hold its centre.'

Padriga: What?

Simeon: Not a clue, chaps. And I dozed through every one of Master Galen's lectures on theogenetic cosmology.

Valesha: That, fool humans, was the perfectly quoted introduction to my monograph on Aetherial mechanics. I presented it to the Psijics, where it received a nod of recognition. A nod!

Djumandir: I'm sure we can use a few annotations to clarify Valesha's points.

Simeon: Or maybe just stick the whole thing in a footnote.

Valesha: Imbecile! I admit it loses a certain nuance in translation, but that is your own fault for not speaking Aldmeris.

Simeon: What else is new? Oh, yes, Oblivion.

Padriga: I'm on it. 'While Aetherius generates creative energy, sustaining our world, the cycle demands balance. Thus, when raw creative energy congeals into physical form, the forces of Oblivion, entropy incarnate, slowly erode it, until returned to its foundational elements. These elements are filtered through Oblivion's sixteen planes, one for every permutation of matter, until cleansed of terrestrial interference. Then, formless and infinite, it ascends to the Aether, to begin the cycle anew.'

Simeon: Slightly easier on the old noggin, but Her Majesty wants everything to be understood by 'gentlefolk of minor schooling,' and I'm not sure your exegesis qualifies.

Valesha: Bah! Most ill-bred chattel can't read without moving their lips and tracing words with index fingers. Why should we stoop to their subterranean level?

Simeon: Why indeed? It's not as if they grow our food, or sew our clothes, or build our homes or—

Valesha: Yes, thank you.

Djumandir: Simeon, you're next.

Simeon: Mundus, I believe? Right. 'Mundus is the sphere that encompasses perceived reality. Think of it as a bubble floating on an endless sea. This sea is the Void, primeval chaos from which our reality emerged. The bubble is Aetherial and Oblivion energies held in hypostatic union. Reality is a product of a consensual dream shared by all sentient beings. Everything, spirit and flesh, is seen through the illusory lens of this consensus. Thus, our senses interpret stellar phenomena in ways our limited minds can comprehend. Circling planets are in fact god-bodies of the ancestral spirits which gave our world shape. Our moons are the manifest dichotomy of a creator deity's dualistic nature, split by his divine siblings. The Sun is a hole in the veil separating Oblivion from our plane, torn by a dissatisfied immortal. And the stars are lesser rents, marking the passage of countless spiritual refugees.'

Djumandir: I feared he'd never stop.

Valesha: And you name me long-winded.

Simeon: At least I talk sense.

Valesha: Hmph. Your account is simplistic. And open to dispute.

Padriga: I read the Dwemer believed the stars were 'liquid-fire held in gravitational captivity. This fiery embrace is seen as light.'

Valesha: The Dwemer were a motely band of opiated chimpanzees. I wouldn't consider their ridiculous conjurations.

Djumandir: Padri draws attention to a serious issue, though. Our rough guide to the cosmos isn't infallible. There are differing opinions on supra-reality's nature. Some say there are nineteen planes of Oblivion for example.

Valesha: Nineteen? A numerological monstrosity! The Universe is a wheel: Mundus is the hub, its eight spokes are the foundation sacrifices, and Oblivion's twin hands turn the rim. Eight double itself is not nineteen!

Simeon: But aren't there Nine Divines, now? If Oblivion is a bifurcated reflection of their dualism, wouldn't that mean we need eighteen planes?

Valesha: Your deified idol is not an eternal spirit, human. I'll never acknowledge your god-emperor as Aedra. Talos is no more than a tired traveller, stumbling in the wake of a mighty host long past the horizon.

Padriga: Careful, Valesha. The dreamsleeve is not dead to vibrations, and the Empress' attentive servants might hear your blasphemies.

Valesha: Blasphemy is to suggest the Universe does not unfold according to numerical perfection. To quote Master Galerion, 'Give me a flexible equation and I'll measure the stars'.

Djumadir: I think this need for precision is too limiting. Surely the Dragon of Time swims where he wills? Who can map his sinuous curves or count his resplendent scales?

Valesha: Auri-El is predictable through necessity. He must stand as the metapoeic counter to chaotic Padhomae. The Shining Serpent's tireless circumambulation of the Wheel defines Order, and allows linear time to know its nature. If he succumbed to random fluctuations and guesswork, his arrhythmic tossings would ripple reality, and sum and reason would drool out our ears.

Padriga: A colourful image.

Simeon: We're getting side-tracked. What's the next topic?

Djumandir: The elders say in old Yokuda no one worshipped the Time Dragon.

Valesha: And this is why your gods-forsaken homeland sunk beneath the waves! Such irresponsible faithlessness endangers us all. For an Image to become Substance, it must grow upon solid thought-foundations. If there is no ideal of Order, how can it exert its energies upon consensual reality?

Djumandir: But if reality's only a consensus could we not turn our collective will to another illusion? One where void-swimming Serpents are not required to set our temporal boundaries? Could we not believe in a reality where no cosmic arbiters are needed at all? A universe where our wills alone shape perception.

Valesha: Silence! You disturb the Earth-Bones, and we cannot stand on ambivalent ground. I won't partake in your apish Dwemer-talk, I won't!

Simoen: Gods, I'm only an astral projection and my head's hurting. Nothing worse than a metaphorical migraine. Ugh.

Padriga: Heh. The Dwemer claimed the Sun was a blazing orb our world, Nirn, orbited.

Djumandir: Indeed, what if the gods themselves are phantoms cast by light held in an invisible master's hand? Perhaps daedra and aedra are no more than dream-shadows drifting across closed eyelids. What will the Sleeper remember upon waking?

Valesha: Yes, existence is but a mind-born apparition, this is known, but it requires internal consistency. Some method is needed to ensure disparate ontological grammars do not contradict and nullify each other. As mortals are equal in their shared illusion an external ordinator is essential to catalogue and define their disparate delusions. Only an entity removed from transient flux, a 'deity', can escape existential inertia and ensure the dream does not collapse beneath its own impossibility.

Padriga: And Nirn is but one of many mineral spheres, termed 'planets.' Those Dwemer, such imaginations.

Simeon: Take the commission, he said, easy money, he said. Ye gods, if I ever see Aurus again I'll slap him silly!

Djumandir: Let us assume the Void is still water, and our thoughts ripples upon its surface, does that not imply our reaching intellects can re-forge the dream's foundation? Circumscribing deities crystallised in the Dawn through our own fear of chaos. Our ancestors glimpsed Padhomae side-long, dreading its million hungry maws. Thus our terror found purchase in the churning Aether and gathered faith-substance about itself, until it resembled a suitable saviour. Yet these gods are no more than scribbled laws held between Man and instinct. How far the roots go, our fever for order ossifying into Earth-bones that prevent creative bending. Is this our destiny? To forever live as fleeting tenants in the world we created? Surely the dream can stand on illogical legs if we will it so, though it will require murdering hope, and wonder and other childish mysteries. A fair price for self-mastery, I say.

Valesha: The Aedra gave us their static essence to prevent our ephemeral matrices degrading. We are split at the source, and require equilibrium to prevent listing into the Aether or Oblivion. Though arbitrating gods might limit our potential it is essential something free from psychic re-configuration compute the dream's underlying logic. Otherwise individual dreamers might merge into a single, gestalt consciousness too unified to manifest variated madness. The gods anchor us in a shifting sea, permitting the illusion of ego. Without them, we'd return to the undifferentiated singularity which heralded the Dawn.

Simeon: Why am I still twiddling my thumbs in this metaphysical dump? I need a drink. Care to join me, Padri?

Padriga: What if the Dwemer got it right? What if they phased into a more accommodating reality, a boring one where everything makes sense? Those poor things.

Djumandir: A fair point, Valesha. With some polishing, I think this'll serve as excellent introduction to our cosmos.

Valesha: A tad simplified, but it will hold a mud-farming yeoman's attention, I'd wager. Now, what of the Serpent, scintillating Auri-el, and his role in shepherding the constellations?

Simeon: Bugger this. I'm off to a quiet little tavern outside Cheydinnal, where the serving wenches are famed for their huge jugs.

Djumandir: Ah, linked to his persona as both temporal logothete and entropic director. Yes, a fascinating paradox, for he must simultaneously maintain celestial orbits and grind universal gears to inevitable stillness.

Padriga: Everything comprehensible, nothing left to faith or preference. The horror.

Simeon: Goodbye, dear friends. It's been a headache.

Valesha: And he's gone. Finally, we can get some work done. Right! Where were we?


End file.
